


Darling, Dinner Will Just Have to Wait

by Lasgalendil



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Bucky is a little shit, Cat Bucky Barnes, Cat/Human Hybrids, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Spoiler Alert: Something Wild Calls You Home, Steve Rogers is a goddamned tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 01:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10753749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: Steve Rogers wants to have a quiet evening alone at home. Maybe order some food. Discuss their relationship....that damned cat has other plans.





	Darling, Dinner Will Just Have to Wait

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Something Wild Calls You Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9312707) by [superheroresin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superheroresin/pseuds/superheroresin). 



> I didn't know I needed Snow Leopard Bucky/Steve smut, but after reading Something Wild Calls You Home it became apparent THE WORLD needs Snow Leopard Bucky/Steve smut.

Steve’s still not sure how it happened.  
  
He’d been—God he’d been—anticipating it for weeks, years now, if he’s honest with himself. But there had always been that line between them, in love but not yet lovers, affectionate, intimate, even, but not sexual. They were a superior and a subordinate, separated in space, in time for five years, they weren’t even the same _species_ , for God’s sake. Buck had never been with a human, and Steve—  
  
Well. Steve didn’t consider himself a feliphile. And yet—and yet there it was. They’d skirted around the edges of it, cuddled together, Steve’s fingers in Bucky’s hair, scratching behind his black-tipped ears, felt the warm, wet length of Buck’s barbed tongue flit across his palm, basked in the implicit trust in Buck baring his scruff, his belly, the swift jolt of pleasure that came from stroking the smooth fur on that long, spotted tail…but they haven’t.  
  
And it seems so damned old-fashioned. They haven’t what? Consummated? Fucked? Cuddling with Buck, hands in his soft fur, the delicate rim of his ear between Steve’s fingers, listening to, feeling in his bones that deep, rumbling purr…those moments tucked up together in bed felt more intimate, more precious than any sex he’d ever had. He trusts Buck with his life, owes Buck his life. Has bared his soul. Trusts Buck with himself, all his secrets and his shames. Steve’s not some bumbling virgin, not an inexperienced teen, knows virginity is a ridiculous social construct, and yet—  
  
And yet it bothers him.  
  
They’ve discussed it. A bit. Steve asking questions, trying to comprehend what went on in the mind (and body) of a cat. Knew from his briefings as a leader of a feline unit their mating could be aggressive, possessive, territorial. Had more to do with satisfying a biological urge than any emotional pair bonding. And Buck—  
  
Buck had had mates. Spent his heats in the the CFC centers since he was twelve, for fuck's sake. Had never sired a kit. And Steve wonders—doesn’t dare ask—what that experience was like, whether Buck perceived it, as he did, as sexual assault, coercion, but he couldn’t push a human agenda onto something he was unable, unwilling perhaps, to understand. But he wonders, especially since the mistake of visiting the Barnes’, tracking down Buck’s breeder if that fatherlessness had been purposeful. Whether Buck genuinely prefers the presence of another male to a Queen, whether this preference had been deferred to…or whether the snow leopard markings that bloomed too late to save Buck from a life of Army conscription, sold his sister to a Japanese record label at the age of six, would have fetched millions for that miserable breeder on the international market, well. He wonders how much Buck knows. Knows Buck would do anything to avoid impregnating a Queen, to prevent that happening to another helpless kit.  
  
Steve’s in the kitchen, getting dinner off the grill because his cat’s a spoiled brat and wanted tuna steaks “and asparagus!”, and Steve still can’t find a decent place on GrubHub. He plates their portions, considers a white wine for himself, but shakes the thought off. Buck doesn’t like it when he drinks. Steve’s body doesn’t like it when he drinks, either. And given his family history—yeah, Rogers. It’s probably best you don’t drink. Period.  
  
Buck’s playful today, anticipating dinner, riled up as the smell of grilled meat permeates the house. He’s skittering through the halls on all threes, leaping off the walls to turn, never slowing, picking up in momentum. Steve’s laughing, tells him to settle down, that’s enough, wipes his hands a a dish towel when two hundred pounds of cat hits him in the midriff and tackles him to the floor. Buck’s got him, biting him, just playful nips, sinking teeth into flesh but never drawing blood, stocking-feet curled up, raking at Steve’s belly and his untimely erection.  
  
“Jesus, Buck—“ Steve winces, because his cat might not have claws like a mundane feline but the instinct was still there, predator versus prey, even in play. A true cat with Buck’s size and strength would have disemboweled him with hind kicks like that, and even without them Buck’s bony, humanoid feet leave bruises in their wake.  
  
But Buck’s not done. Still playful, tail lashing out, wrestling and biting and laughing, and Steve wonders if his cat got into something while he was out. Despite his size, his genetics and metabolism made drinking dangerous, and the few times Buck had indulged in alcohol he’d been a pathetic mess (Thanks, Tony.). This was different, kittenish, playful, and Steve thinks absurdly of catnip. Buck’s pupils are blown wide, darting after his every movement, teeth gnawing Steve’s arms every time he attempts escape.  
  
“Buck, stop,” Steve protests through a spout of laughter, managing to get the upper hand. He flips them, and just as suddenly as the skirmish had begun its over, and Buck is mewling, pressing his hips back into Steve’s, back arched, shoulders and scruff down. Presenting.  
  
“Buck—“ Steve begins.

  
“Fuck you,” Bucky growls into the carpet. “Get in me.”

  
“But—I—what—“ Steve gestures down to his tail helplessly.

  
“Jesus, Rogers—“ Buck reaches his hand back, twisting his spine like no human ever could. Tears his pants down, waistband snagging his tail. It flicks, irritated, and Buck has to grasp it with his hand to slide the denim off. He’s not wearing any underwear. A fact that doesn’t escape Steve.

  
“Well?” Buck pouts, pushing back against him, and Jesus, those are the warm globes of Buck’s ass checks, brushing against the sides of Steve’s over-interested cock. His own uniform slacks have grown painfully tight, and his shirt collar is stifling. “It’s an ass. I know you’ve seen one before. Get busy.”  
  
“Buck—“ Steve protests.  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Left pocket,” Buck sighs. And yeah. Yeah there’s a packet of lube in there that Steve fishes out, water-based, feline safe. Breeder’s Choice. And if it’s labelled as a breeding aid for feline heats and/or rectal temperature taking, well. It strikes Steve suddenly that the foiled packaging, the cursive script, the design like a satchel of lubricant is intended for the aesthetic pleasure and lure of the human breeder/buyer, not the cats its intended for. And the thought makes him a little sick, even with Buck’s bare ass waggling against him impatiently.  
  
Steve might be half out of his mind with sex and lust, but he’s not going to rush this. If Buck wants their first time on the hallway floor instead of the bedroom that’s his business (and Steve’s knees will just deal with the carpet burn, thank you oh so very much) but Steve isn’t about to ruin it with worrying what sort of zoonotic STDs he could pick up. Or spread, for that matter. It’s not like they could go together to the CFC and get tested.  
  
“Do you—“  
  
“Also left pocket,” Buck hisses.  
  
And yeah. There’s a condom—or several—in there. He’s struggling with his tie and shirt buttons, trying to undo his belt one-handedly. “I don’t care don’t care just get IN me,” Buck pants, ass now flush against Steve’s still-clothed thigh, desperate for any pressure. And yeah, okay, that’s his cat. Bossy little brat.  
  
Steve manages to extricate himself from his clothes, just enough to roll the condom on. Jesus, his balls are still stuck in the waistband of his underwear, and he’s going to get friction burns on the knees of his uniform pants. He has to straighten up a bit. Adjust himself around the underwear, at least. The pants he writes off as collateral. “What do I—“  
  
“Fuuuuck, Steve,” Buck whines at the loss of sensation.  
  
“Tail,” Steve mumbles unhelpfully. He’s touched it before, of course, light, gentle, petting strokes in bed, but this feels different. He doesn’t want—Rumlow, the thought flashes angrily through his mind—he’s not going to pull, or yank, not going to manhandle, not going to hurt Buck if he can help it.  
  
“Uhngh,” Buck shifts, angles his shoulders down, resting his face against the carpet, lone arm trailed on in front of him, his fingers bunched into the carpet, and tilts his hips sideways ever so slightly. But his luxurious tail is still thrashing from base to tip. He was agitated, more so than Steve had ever seen. Was it excitement over sex? Was it fear? Annoyance at Steve’s hesitation—?  
  
“Buck—“ Steve says, reaching a tentative hand out to smooth his cat’s arched back.  
  
“Don’t got another arm you’re gonna have to move it yourself,” Buck grumbles, looking up at Steve over the ruins of his left shoulder. His blue eyes have gone black, and the skin on his forehead is slick with sweat.  
  
And yeah, okay. Steve’s an asshole.  
  
He traces his hand down the long fur lightly, just a tentative touch, not a grasp. “How do—“  
  
“IN,” Buck insists, half-mewl, half-roar.  
  
_Inpatient punk_ , Steve smiles. Grasps him loosely by the base of his tail, feels the strange swell of bone separate from his back, a living, powerful thing, pulse pounding up the sides under that handful of fur.

Buck makes a choked off little noise.  
  
“You like that,” Steve says, wonderingly. He’s hard, aching for it, wants to push in but his own satisfaction seems so distant now with this new curiosity, losing all thoughts of himself with Buck’s pleasure before him. Steve squeezes tighter in experimentation.  
  
Buck scrabbles against the floor with his one hand, swearing. “Get. In. Me.”  
  
Steve laughs. Continues to tease Buck’s tail, firm pressure on the base, two fingers skritching the spine like he would behind Buck’s round ears. One of Buck’s legs slips loose from beneath him, trembling helplessly, foot scrabbling. He lets out the most obscene groan.  
  
“Yeah,” Steve laughs a little, awed at the splayed body before him. “You like that.”  
  
“Shitshitshitshitshit,” Buck pants, pressing up on his elbow and remaining knee, pushes himself into the palm of Steve’s hand.  “Swear to fucking God, Rogers, if all I get is some dirty-talk and a little tail-play—“ Buck cuts off his threat with a low moan, purr wrest from deep in his chest.  
  
“You _really_ like that,” Steve grins, because he’s an asshole. The tip of Buck’s tail twitches, a little flicker of annoyance, but the base has gone soft and sated in Steve’s hand. His cat couldn’t thrash now if he wanted to, spine turned to jelly. And Steve did that. He’s made a mess of Buck with just one hand.  
  
…he wants to know what he can do with two.  
  
Steve tears the packet open with his teeth, lubes up his hand. Trails his fingers around Buck’s lean waist. “This okay?” He whispers. Buck thrusts his hips and whimpers helplessly, head down and scruff displayed. It wasn’t exactly verbal, but mark that down for informed and enthusiastic consent, Steve thinks. He lets his hand wander lower. And they’re—they’re really doing this, now. Buck lets out a moan of pleasure, and Steve closes his hand around Buck. Begins to stroke. Buck’s firm and heavy in his palm, the bone in the head of his penis a strange sensation, the barbs on the undersides of the shaft prickling. It’s so alien, so odd, and yet—yet Buck makes these closed-off, pleased little sounds deep in his throat, thrusts against him, and Steve can feel the vibrations rumbling up Buck’s spine, through the hand holding the base of his tail, the fingers wrapped around his cock. It’s odd, but it’s okay. Buck’s not human, but Buck’s a _person_ , and right now wringing every ounce of pleasure, every moan and mewl from his gasping lips, tearing the purr from deep in his throat is the most important thing Steve Rogers has ever done.  
  
He’s not a feliphile, not getting off on some sick fetish, he’s Steve Rogers as he’s always been Steve Rogers, and the cat before him isn’t here because he’s been bought and paid for or licensed. Buck’s here because Steve loved him and looked for him, raised hell to find him, and because _Buck chose to be here with him_ on his own terms.  
  
…and later, maybe later, if he’s been very, _very_ good to him, Steve will get to find out what that rough feline tongue feels like against every inch of his skin.


End file.
